


With Me

by bellinibeignet



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Divorce, M/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:03:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellinibeignet/pseuds/bellinibeignet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames’ marriage has started to deteriorate, and their marriage counselor finally tells them that they should get a divorce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Me

**Author's Note:**

> for cassandra

 

Having only known the life of a fostered orphan, Arthur didn’t understand what ‘divorce’ meant. Never having parents, daydreaming of possibility, desperate for love and nurturing - none of that was divorce. Divorce was witnessing the love that produced you turn sour and dissolve. It was hard to miss something he’d never had.

Eames knew about divorce (although technically, he was an orphan now, too). Cynthia and David Michael Eames divorced when Eames was thirteen, and he hadn’t seen it coming. The plush skirting of his life hadn’t prepared him.

After that, much of what Eames knew had to do with loss. His mother passed when he was twenty-two. The two men he’d considered his brothers killed themselves only weeks apart during his time in the army. And his father (who was a great guy aside from being entirely too doubting of Eames’ greatness) died just eight months ago.

That might’ve been the beginning of the end. If this was indeed the end.

At first, it just seemed that individual stress had barrowed between them. Eames was in the middle of his novel – his third and most anticipated, which would surely give him notoriety in the literary world – and that entailed hours in his office and even more hours in a coffeeshop in Boston proper.

(Even then, Arthur should’ve known that something was wrong. Eames had rarely made use of his office since they bought the house. Not until a handful of months ago. He could sit on the couch with Arthur curled next to him, television on, all the while managing to keep half a conversation, tapping away at his computer with ease. When Arthur first noticed this, he voiced his opinion that that couldn’t possibly be conducive to good production.

“I don’t like my office,” Eames said. “I like the ambient noise here. And I like being with you when you’re home.”

“I’ve been reduced to a muse,” Arthur said with a defensive pout.

“A beautiful muse nonetheless.”)

In fact, nowadays, he spent more hours in the coffeeshop than in the actual house. The house they’d chosen together some six years ago, with its dark browns and reds and evergreens and golds. Everything was warm and hardwood and plush. A space that they’d created together, a reflection of their union.

(There was a bright yellow vase on the bookshelf above the television that belonged to Eames’ mother. And the gold graduation cap from Arthur’s time at Johns Hopkins was framed and on the wall. That was about as bright as it got, and it bothered neither of them for a very long time. It was cozy.)

Arthur supposed the house was taunting them now, its coziness no longer present in their relationship. One day, months ago, Eames stood from the couch, opened the curtains and blinds and window to let the sun and breeze come in. “It’s too fucking cramped in this room,” he grumbled, and then he decided he would go for a run, and when he returned, he didn’t seem to say anything to Arthur for the rest of that day.

That was a Sunday. A Sunday in May. They loved Sundays together, but this had been the first break in that subtle tradition.

Now, Arthur couldn’t remember their last Sunday together.

(Yes he could. Their last Sunday together was two months ago. Christmas at Ari and Yusuf’s. Because Yusuf was Eames’ publisher, and they had to. They exchanged gifts before that party, and it was painful. Eames bought Arthur a new stethoscope – a fine and expensive one, but incredibly impersonal compared to Eames’ usual taste – and Arthur, who was trying, bought a new piece of art for their bedroom – a photograph of a single lilac flower laying on concrete.

On their first date, Eames had given Arthur a lilac.)

The home just wasn’t what it used to be. Eames seemed to have checked out, and Arthur had started to lack in the energy to try.

Since Christmas, Arthur had taken on extra hours at the hospital. He didn’t mind it, because he loved his work, however stressful it could be. Still, he loved his husband more, and wished he could go back to when the days were good. Wished he could’ve retained the resolve to keep persistent, to insist on being around Eames, letting his eyes show how desperate he was for affection.

For his husband.

They’d gone to couple’s counseling with a man named Robert Fischer – who was probably too young and single to know anything about marriage – and now the counseling was done. They’re last meeting was a week ago.

“The truth is,” Robert said with detriment all over his pale and sharp face. “I can only rehabilitate those who want to be healed.” He removed his glasses and closed his little notebook. “And I don’t think you are all the way in this.”

He didn’t need to specific. It was Eames who already seemed to have one foot out of the door.

“This isn’t a typical situation,” Robert said. “You don’t fight or disagree. That would involve speaking, which you don’t seem to do besides ‘good morning’ and ‘what do you want for dinner?’ If that, seeing as you don’t share meals anymore, correct?”

Neither of them said anything, although Eames gripped the leather sofa. (“I hate that leather sofa we have to sit on,” he’d said after the first meeting. “Makes me sweat.”)

“And you aren’t having sex,” Robert continued, and Arthur’s breath caught in his throat, because that was painfully true. Eames hadn’t touched him in nearly three months. They hadn’t kissed on the lips with meaning in a time far before that. God, where had it gone wrong?

“What are you saying, then?” Eames asked, a soft irritation in his voice, because he wasn’t particularly vitriolic. Just an irritable passive-aggressive. At least, he’d become one recently.

“I’m saying that you should consider getting a divorce,” Robert said, and he let out a regretful sigh. “As a counselor, I shouldn’t be saying that. In fact, I believe in you. In your separate sessions, it is quite clear in the way that you talk about one another – about your past and how you met and how you fell in love – that you belong together. But you don’t seem to believe in that yourselves for some reason.

“So my suggestion is that you consider seeking out a divorce lawyer – I assume that it will be amicable – and think about living out your futures separately.”

Today, Arthur didn’t go in to the hospital. Robert’s words has lingered around the house, in their empty (only necessary) conversations, in that wide space between their bodies as they slept. _Divorce._

Yes. Divorce. The word that meant separation and love lost. The word had haunted them for long enough.

Arthur woke up earlier than Eames, made himself some coffee, and spent most of the morning researching that devilish word. (He never once thought that he’d be Googling information about terminating his marriage to Eames. They’d always been perfect. Always.)

Account after account of men and women discussing the failure of the marriage, whether it was because they’d never loved one another at all, someone had cheated, or they’d gotten married too soon, and Arthur took them directly to heart, whether they applied or not. He was waiting to read something that helped, but it seemed that most people found bliss once their proceedings were final.

And maybe Eames saw what he was reading when he came out into living room. Arthur had looked over his shoulder at the sound of Eames yawning.

“You’re not at work?” Eames asked.

Before Arthur could say ‘no’, he saw Eames’ subtle blue eyes flick to the laptop Arthur had perched on his thighs.

Eames stared for only a moment before grunting and saying he was going out for his run before it snowed. (“Always bloody snowing in this city,” he’d muttered. And suddenly it was Arthur’s fault, because this was Arthur’s hometown that they’d chosen to live in, and “Did it not snow in Surrey?” Arthur called out into the kitchen, because of course it fucking did, and maybe they were a bit snider towards one another since counseling ended.

“At least you’re talking,” young Robert Fischer would’ve said.)

Arthur called Dom, for some reason. They were friends, but Arthur didn’t really know why on some days. Dom was flaky and rather narrow-minded for someone who was supposed to be a genius. If Arthur were to ask anyone for relationship advice, Dom should be the last consideration, as his wife Mallorie had divorced him and taken the kids some three years ago.

Or maybe that made him the perfect candidate.

“Ask me?” Dom grunted, and he was probably drunk. “Let it go. If you were willing to fight for it, you would’ve done it by now.”

“Hey. I’ve been trying.”

“Takes two. If he isn’t trying, it doesn’t matter what you do.”

Arthur realized then that he probably should’ve called Mal.

Eames spent the day at home, and it was probably because of the snowstorm that was surely going to roll in and deliver a February ice age for the greater Boston area. Which used to be a good thing for them. How many storms had they spent in this house, curled into one another, sharing a hot chocolate and making every excuse to laugh and touch and wind up with their clothes off, sinking together as they best knew how?

All of them. Every snowstorm was like that. Every single one.

Except this one.

Now, sharing this house - snow falling outside and knowing that Eames was just a hallway away, bent on the idea of wedging a wall between them – was enough to make Arthur scream.

It was dark outside now, a winter six o’ clock, and Arthur was so very tired of spending his days and nights alone.

He went to Eames’ office, knocked gently on the door, then opened it without waiting for an answer. He wouldn’t have gotten one. Eames shut out the entire world when he was writing.

Except, he wasn’t writing. He was turned in his chair, facing the window with aimless eyes, watching the snow.

Eames loved the snow. He was a winter child, born in the cold of November, and there was a time when he insisted on warming his cold hands by rubbing them up and down Arthur’s frame until they were satisfied.

Arthur leaned into the frame of the old oak door, because suddenly, he realized maybe he shouldn’t be fighting. Maybe it was time for the towel.

“Why don’t you let me go?” he said, voice low and quiet.

Eames looked over at him, but his expression said nothing. “Sorry, what?”

Arthur swallowed, crossing his arms. “Let me go, Eames. Just… tell me you want this to be over so we can move on.”

Eames licked his lips, then scratched at his small beard. “Do we have to do this right now?”

“Yes,” Arthur told him, the word rolling angrily off his tongue before he could stop it. “Yes. Right now.”

Eames chuckled – chuckled! – and nodded, but there was no grin. “Your urgency is inspiring.”

Arthur chuckled too, because he suddenly felt gutted, and he also didn’t smile. “Are you trying to upgrade yourself from ‘dismissive’ to ‘taunting’ me now?” He didn’t wait. He returned to his original question. “Why don’t you let me go?”

Eames swallowed. “Why is that up to me? Why don’t you leave?”

A punch. Arthur’s stomach made a quick transition from feeling hollow to heavy. “Is that really what you’re asking me?”

“Sure. Yes. That’s what I’m asking. If you want to go… why not leave?”

“Because I don’t _want_ to leave. I cannot honestly say that I _want_ to leave. Which is why I’m asking you to be the bigger man. To take responsibility for us and _make_ me leave. At least then I would know that you were happy.”

Eames said nothing.

“Tell me what I did to make you fall out of love with me,” Arthur said, finally stepping into the office. He stood by the window, watched the snow for a second, then turned to his husband. “Tell me what I did wrong.”

Eames hummed. “Nothing.”

“I’m serious Eames. Tell me what it is that I’m doing or not doing so I can fix it, or tell me to leave. You aren’t being fair to me otherwise…”

God, he really should’ve called Mal. She would’ve said the right thing. Her voice – sounding like the rustle of leaves in Autumn – would’ve soothed him.

And, after all, she knew Eames best.

Or used to. Arthur was the one who knew Eames best now. If he couldn’t figure it out, who could?

“Are you going to say anything?” Arthur said, voice broken. “I’m – I’m putting it all out here. I’m putting it on the table. I’ve been Googling ‘divorce’ all day like it’s the cure for cancer, and I’m – Eames.” He huffed, and Eames’ eyes were still sullen and unreadable and focused. “Say something.”

Eames didn’t, so Arthur started to leave the room. Before he made it through the door, he turned. “I love you,” he muttered, and then he went back to the living room without waiting for a reply he was sure he wouldn’t receive.

He settled into the couch with every intention of sleeping there, wrapped in his blanket, watching Seinfeld reruns in desperation to be mindless.

At nearly midnight, Eames came into the living room and turned the television off. Arthur sat up, surprised, and pulled his blanket tight over his shoulders, watching.

Eames was messing with their music system now – an iPod with the music they both enjoyed stored on it, hooked up to speakers that Eames would never reveal the price of – and he was squinting at the small screen because he needed glasses but refused to go to Arthur’s optometrist.

Finally, a slow jazz tune started to fill the quiet, and Eames walked over, holding his hand out. “Dance with me?”

Arthur stared, blinking. “Eames, stop it.”

“C’mon. Just one dance.”

Arthur huffed, because he knew he wasn’t being patronized, but it felt a lot like being made fun of.

Still, he stood and took Eames’ hand, allowing himself to be led to the middle of the living room floor.

Eames hands – large and strong – gripped at Arthur’s hips, and Arthur didn’t immediately move to wrap his arms around the back of Eames’ neck because … well, he was too weak and unsure and angry.

Until Eames said “Please, love.”

So, Arthur clasped his hands behind Eames and, God, they were touching.

“You’re the last thing I have,” Eames muttered after a long silence of just dancing and staring at one another, waiting until the other made a move. “Literally. I have lost everyone. Even Mal is living Paris again, and God knows when she’ll make her way back ‘round. All that I have ever experienced is gaining happiness and having it ripped from me. And it scares me that the same might happen here.”

Arthur swallowed. “That’s fucking stupid,” he managed to say, but there was no violence in his voice.

And Eames nodded.

Arthur let his thoughts bring themselves together before he spoke. “I may be the last thing you have, but you are the _first_ thing that I have ever known. The first thing that has every been mine and mine alone. The _first_  and _only_. Your instinct may be to push me away because you want to control loss, but…” He shut his eyes, because it was hard to look at Eames when he was saying things like this. “But my instinct is to hold on because if I lost the _only_ thing I’ve ever known, I’d lose myself, too.”

He opened his eyes again, and Eames was staring back at him, his eyes glistening.

Arthur sighed. “Eames. Tell me what you want. If you want me to leave, I’ll-”

“Don’t,” Eames said, and his grip went tight. “Just...”

They were closer now, pelvis to pelvis, stomach to stomach, and Arthur had hushed, holding his breath.

“Just dance,” Eames told him. “Just dance with me.”

And they did. And before long, Eames kissed his apologies into Arthur’s neck, and muttered about how lost he felt, and how desperate he was to hold on, and how losing his father reminded him again of the impermanence of life, and how he could lose Arthur at any moment, and he’d surely go out of his mind if that ever happened.

And then they went to bed, touching again and feeling again, and God how they loved one another.

The next morning, with four feet of snow on the ground, they had breakfast on piles of blankets in front of the fireplace, talking. And Arthur said he wanted a family, and Eames was happy about that, because he’d never really known if Arthur wanted kids, didn’t know how to ask if they would ever make those small discussions about children and a life in a small town a reality.

They spent the entire day next to one another, close enough to heal. Their living room was warm again, and so was the small space between them.

Everything was fine. 


End file.
